by Max Shulman
In her case there was some room for doubt, but I did not comment. “Please, Miss Jordan,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment.”
“We would make ideal mates,” she said, and a shiver ran up my spine. “We are both young, both well formed, both intelligent. Why shilly-shally? Give me a kiss.”
I broke into a dead run. She, however, clung to my arm and kept pace with me. “Note,” she cried, “the condition I’m in. I can run like a deer. I can swim like a fish. I can lift my own weight. I can operate a drill press. I have all my teeth.”
I stopped. Clearly I could not outrun her. “Miss Jordan,” I panted, “be good enough to release me.”
She tugged on my arm. “Where,” she demanded, “can you find another girl with musculature and brains like mine? I’m not only strong; I’m also an intellectual. I happen to be a regular member of Professor Wycliffe’s open house.”
“I’m glad for you,” I said. “Now if you’ll let me go—”
“You don’t seem impressed,” she said. “Don’t you know about Professor Wycliffe’s open house?”
“No,” I admitted. “You must tell me about it sometime—some other time.” I tried to jerk away.
“Professor Wycliffe,” she went on, holding fast, “used to teach modern literature here at the university. He’s been retired now for several years, but he still conducts an informal discussion group at his home—only for exceptionally gifted students, of course. It’s an open house that goes on every day—sandwiches, cakes, cookies, and wonderful discussions of modern literature. Go steady with ma, and I’ll make you a member of the group.”
“No, thanks,” I declined with a shudder.
“You’ll love Professor Wycliffe,” she insisted. “Very fine man, very learned, very generous. Of course, he’s got a lot of money, but he’s not stingy with it like some rich people. Do you know that he keeps a sugar bowl filled with money on the mantel all the time?”
As the conversation took a fiscal turn, my interest increased. “Why,” I asked, “does he keep a sugar bowl filled with money on the mantel all the time?”
“For members of the group who need to make a loan. The professor knows that students are always running short of money, so he’s put this sugar bowl on the mantel. Whenever you want to borrow some money, you just take it out of the bowl. When you’re ready to repay it, you just put it back in the bowl. You never have to say anything to anybody.”
I felt life and hope returning to me. Here, if I was not mistaken, here in my darkest hour I had found my salvation.
“Let me get this straight,” I said to Fannie. “Do you mean that you can actually borrow all the money you want and put it back whenever you like and you don’t have to say a word to anybody?”
“That’s right,” she answered. “But that’s not the attraction. It’s the wonderful discussions that go on—so cogent, so penetrating, so vital to students of modern literature. You are, of course, a student of modern literature?”
“You bet,” I lied stoutly. I don’t know beans about modern literature. My field is mechanical engineering. To tell the truth, I don’t know much about that either.
“I knew it,” said Fannie. “I could tell by your smooth white forehead and your keen blue eyes. Give me a kiss.”
“Later,” I said, wrenching free with a colossal effort. “Let’s go to Professor Wycliffe’s house now.”
“We can’t. He doesn’t allow students after seven o’clock. He reads in the evenings.… Come, embrace me.”
I leaped behind an oak. “When can we go?” I asked.
“I’ll meet you there at noon tomorrow. It’s on Elm Street—the white house with the green shutters—Dobie, come back here!”
“See you tomorrow,” I cried, jumping on the back of a passing truck.
I was not easy in my mind as noon approached the next day. The thought of getting involved with Fannie Jordan filled me with consternation. Posing as a student of modern literature filled me with some more consternation. Still, how else could a deadbeat like me get hold of ten dollars? It had to be done.
Fannie was waiting for me on the porch of Professor Wycliffe’s house. “Hello, dollface,” she said, and lunged at me.
I held her off with judo. “Let’s go inside,” I urged. “I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”
I pulled her through the door and into a large Victorian living room. For a moment I was taken aback by the scene which greeted me there. This was my first close look at the campus literary set, and in appearance they were not reassuring. Some were frail and screechy. Some were gross and hairy, with dirty shirts and fingernails. Some were lean and intense, with eyes like live coals. But most unsettling of all were the women. Compared to the others, Fannie was a Powers model. Misshapen hulks they were, clad in pavement-colored frocks, their hair like untrimmed hedges, their voices strident as alarm bells, in each of their mouths a dangling cigarette.
There were perhaps thirty students in the room when we entered. They were seated in a ragged circle on the floor, arguing with deafening passion. At frequent intervals a tray of sandwiches or cookies would appear. There would be a half-minute’s silence while the food was devoured and then, refreshed, they would resume their argument with increased volume.
In the center of the circle on a well-worn leather armchair sat Professor Wycliffe. Picture Santa Claus without the beard and you get the professor. He was the very personification of benevolence. His cheeks were rosy, his nose was rosier, his blue eyes twinkled with humor, his hair was snowy, his mouth wore a perpetual smile, his belly was benignly round.
Fannie brought me over to the professor and introduced me. “This is Dobie Gillis. He knows all about modern literature.”
“I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this.”
“Not at all. I’m always happy to have students of modern literature around me. Come over any time—before seven, that is. I read in the evenings.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“As you can hear,” said the professor, pointing at the students with his pipe, “we are discussing existentialism. I’m sure you must have some opinions on the subject, Mr. Gillis.”
“Indeed I do,” I replied with diabolical cleverness. “But I am a terribly shy fellow. It will probably take weeks before I gather up enough nerve to join the discussion—maybe months.”
“I understand,” he said, nodding sympathetically. “You just sit down and listen and make yourself at home.”
Fannie and I wedged our way into the circle. I assumed a listening attitude. I intended to stay in this position for a half hour or so, just to make things look right, and then I would head for the sugar bowl. It stood, as advertised, on the mantel. Peeking over the top of it was the lovely green of U.S. currency. I had a sudden impulse to leap up and lunge at the bowl, but I held myself sternly in check. This operation had to be conducted slowly and with finesse; a premature move could louse up everything. So I contained myself and sat and listened.
What I heard might have been the conversation of Martians. “Sartre is a deviant,” cried one of the students. “Subjective idealism can be interpreted on four levels,” cried another. “Joyce’s conception of archetypes derives from Kant’s Ding an Sich,” cried a third. “Kafka negated the image-myth,” cried a fourth. “Rilke’s Zeitgeist was post-oedipal,” cried a fifth.
All of these unlikely statements were delivered with full throat and bristling conviction. Professor Wycliffe nodded benignly through the bedlam, puffing on his pipe, and occasionally tossing out an observation upon which the assemblage fell like a pack of hounds on a scrap of meat.
After a while I noticed that the student sitting on my left was taking no part in the conversation. He was a fat, pimply-faced fellow with a slack underlip, who sat and snored lightly until a plate of sandwiches appeared. Then as if by magic he would come awake. He would snatch up sandwiches with both hands, cram them into his mouth, and reach for more before the others could empty the plate. After eating he would shift po
sition slightly and go right back to sleep until the next serving.
It came to me suddenly that I was not the only impostor in this room. Fat-Boy was another. It was clear that he didn’t know modern literature from a hole in the ground. He was just a freeloader who came to stuff himself. I shrugged tolerantly; it was all right with me. I was hardly in a position to judge others.
Then an alarming thought crossed my mind. Was Fat-Boy only after a free meal? Or did he have his eye on the sugar bowl too? I rose to my feet. I couldn’t take a chance. Now, while Fat-Boy was asleep, I would have to make my move.
With elaborate casualness I crossed the room to the fireplace. I turned my back to the fireplace and placed my elbow on the mantel, my fingers not too close to the sugar bowl. I stood quite still for several minutes and pretended to listen to the discussion. Then, slowly, quarter inch by quarter inch, I moved my fingers toward the bowl. At last I made contact. Keeping my eyes front, I crooked my fingers over the edge of the bowl, dipped in, felt the coolness of the money.
Then I saw the professor looking at me. There was no friendliness in his glance now. There was speculation, even a little suspicion. Had he, I wondered, divined my scheme? Did he know that I was there under false pretenses, that my only interest was to latch onto the money in the sugar bowl? I withdrew my fingers hastily. I had obviously moved too fast. First I had to convince the professor that I was a student of modern literature; then I could go for the money. I would have to wait until tomorrow. I would have to risk losing the money to Fat-Boy. And also, I realized with a wrench of panic, I would somehow have to stall Thalia. That, I knew would not be easy, but it was the only course open to me. The sugar bowl was my last resort; I could not let my haste put that in jeopardy.
Casting the professor a disarming smile, I moved away from the mantel and resumed my place between Fannie and Fat-Boy. There I sat for two hours—nodding, frowning, cocking my head, rubbing my chin, winking, biting my lip, raising my eyebrows, making all sorts of intelligent grimaces to convince the professor that I understood the argument raging around me. Not until I was sure he was satisfied did I take my leave. “See you tomorrow,” I called and, with a nervous look at Fat-Boy, I left the house.
Fannie caught up with me as soon as I reached the sidewalk. “Where are you going?” she demanded.
I turned and faced her squarely. Now that I had access to Professor Wycliffe’s house, I had no intention of keeping up any pretenses with this beast. “I am going to keep a date with my girl Thalia Menninger,” I told her in loud, distinct tones.
“What’s the matter with you?” she raged. “How can you possibly spend your time with a jitterbug like that?”
I bridled. “Thalia happens to be a very fine girl.”
“Bah,” replied Fannie Jordan. “She’s not a girl at all. She’s a confection.”
“Miss Jordan, if you don’t stop molesting me, I will call a policeman.”
She seized both my shoulders in a grip of iron. “Tell me the truth. Is that what you want in a girl—chi-chi, frou-frou, fancy clothes, permanent waves?”
“Yes,” I said. “Now please unhand me. I’ve got enough trouble.”
“Are you blind, man?” she yelled. “Can’t you see that I’m twelve times the woman she is? Look at me! I’m honest. I’m intelligent. I’m durable. I’m earthy. I’m built for a lifetime’s service. Look at this pelvis. Go on, look!”
“Some other time,” I said faintly. “I don’t feel strong enough now. Won’t you let me go?”
“Frou-frou and chi-chi—that’s all you care about. Fool!” She thrust me from her with such force that I was sent reeling for a half block down the street. She went back into the professor’s house, and I made my way to the library.
“Good news!” I cried as soon as I saw Thalia. “We’re going to the Freshman Prom.”
She extended her hand. “Show me the tickets.”
“I’ll have them tomorrow,” I promised. “Absolutely. Without fail. For sure. Beyond a doubt. Most assuredly. Positively.” And so on in this vein until Thalia was finally persuaded. She gave me until three o’clock the next afternoon to buy the tickets.
Promptly at noon the following day I entered Professor Wycliffe’s salon. The same group littered the floor, making at least as much noise as previously. Fannie Jordan cast hot eyes on me as soon as I walked in. Giving her a wide berth, I moved over and took a place beside the dozing Fat-Boy. I let a half hour go by, during which I feigned interest in the gibberish, and then I walked boldly over to the sugar bowl and stuck my hand in. It was empty.
I gnashed my teeth. So Fat-Boy had beaten me to it after all. It could only have been Fat-Boy. Only a swine like that would have cleaned out the whole bowl. Anybody else would have left a little. It was my own fault, I thought bitterly. I should have taken a chance yesterday and grabbed the money. I should never have trusted Fat-Boy to keep his gluttonous hands off it. But the damage was done now. Sighing miserably, I slumped down on the floor.
One slim hope remained. I was sure that many of the students in the room were in debt to the sugar bowl. Perhaps some of them were going to repay their loans in the next few hours. Admittedly it was a slender possibility, but still it could happen. And if it did, I thought grimly, I would not lose out to Fat-Boy this time. I would snatch the money out of the bowl before he could even get his great hams off the floor.
I sat and waited until five minutes to three. Nobody came near the sugar bowl. There was nothing to do but pick up my aching bones and go face Thalia. With the gait of a convict walking down death row to the electric chair, I left Professor Wycliffe’s house.
I arrived at the library with a plan. It was a desperate plan, born of desperation. The chances of its working were sickeningly minute. It was too complicated. It depended on too many factors. It contained too many stages, and each stage contained obstacles that were all but insurmountable. Yet it was the only plan that my beaten brain could produce. There was nothing to do but try it.
“Thalia, I haven’t got the tickets,” I said immediately upon meeting her. “I’ll have them tonight. Will you wait until nine o’clock?”
“No,” she said unequivocally.
I thereupon went into a plea that would have made William Jennings Bryan seem a mute and Demosthenes a high school valedictorian. Strangers had gathered around me and were weeping openly before I finished. Finally even Thalia was moved. She agreed to wait until nine o’clock. “But not one minute longer,” she cautioned.
“I’ll be at the girls’ dormitory with the tickets at nine,” I said, wiping my streaming brow. The first stage of my plan had ended successfully.
But in spite of my initial triumph, I had little confidence that the second stage would work. This stage involved getting Professor Wycliffe out of his house for several hours. Toward this end I had devised a really wild scheme. I phoned Professor Wycliffe. “Hello,” I said. “This is Ernest Hemingway.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “How do you do, Mr. Hemingway?” said the professor shakily.
“Tell you why I called, Wycliffe,” I said briskly. “Happen to be going through Minneapolis. On my way to South Dakota for the pheasant shooting. Heard a lot about you. Best damn scholar of modern literature in the country. Been wanting to meet you for some time. How about dinner tonight?”
“I’d be honored, sir.”
“Good man. Get down to Charlie’s restaurant as soon as you can. I may be late, but wait for me.”
“I’ll leave right away.”
“Good man. Good-by.”
I hung up the telephone, scarcely believing my luck. Stage Two had worked. Still I took a dim view of the success of my plan. Stage Three lay ahead, and that was fraught with trouble. So was Stage Four. And Stage Five.
I waited outside the professor’s house until I saw him leave. Then I went inside to put Stage Three in operation. This entailed getting the sugar bowl refilled.
The students were seated on the floor, still yocking
away. Fannie glared at me balefully. Fat-Boy was dozing. I went to the professor’s chair in the centre of the circle. I stood on the chair. “Attention!” I called.
They fell quiet and looked up at me.
“I have a very distressing announcement to make,” I said. “I know how you all love the professor and appreciate all he has done for you. Well, here is your chance to do something for him. I have just learned that the professor is broke—absolutely penniless.”
“But that’s impossible!” cried a student. “He’s got a great big trust fund.”
“The trust fund is empty,” I said sadly. “I heard about it today from an unimpeachable source. That’s why we’ve got to help the professor. I know we can’t do much, but at least we can all pay back the money we’ve taken out of the sugar bowl. How about it, kids? Let’s put the money back.”
“I still can’t believe it,” someone said. “How can he keep up this salon if he hasn’t got any money?”
“It just happened today,” I said. “That’s why the professor had to go downtown.”
“He didn’t tell us anything about it,” protested a student.
“Too proud,” I said feverishly. Stage Three was misfiring badly. Nobody was making a move toward the sugar bowl. If only somebody would start, then I knew the rest would follow. “Who’ll be the first to help out the dear professor?” I said with my most fetching smile.
Silence.
I felt vertigo setting in. Unless somebody would start this mob to the sugar bowl, I was a dead pigeon. I couldn’t do it myself; I didn’t have a penny.
Then I remembered the silver dollar with the bullet hole in the center. I had promised Grandpa that I’d never spend it, to be sure, but this wasn’t really spending it. I would just be using it temporarily. I’d get it back when I raided the bowl later.
“I’ll start,” I announced in a loud tone.
I took the silver dollar out of my pocket and dropped it into the bowl. For an awful moment nobody moved to follow. Then they started to get up. One by one they passed the sugar bowl and dropped in their money. Even Fat-Boy dropped in a couple of dollars—not nearly so much as he had taken out, that rat, but I was far too pleased to bear a grudge. Stage Three was a smashing success; the bowl was loaded with money.